Makrath gave a shallow shrug. “He is formidable.”
“As are you,” Zhoren replied, and there was no comfort in it. Only calculation. “That is why we are here.”
The craft docked with a muted clunk. Air pressure equalised. Hatches cycled. The crew performed their duties with the same careful precision as a medical team approaching a volatile patient.
Makrath rose in a single fluid motion. The compartment seemed smaller with him standing. His tail uncoiled and fell behind him, heavy and controlled, not allowed to swing. The armour shifted as he moved, tightening to the contours of his body, retracting to avoid brushing the bulkheads.
No weapons were carried. The Sael had insisted.
Makrath did not like that. He did not need a blade to kill. But the absence of weapons made a statement, and the statement was not aimed at Karian.
It was aimed at him.
They stepped onto the station.
Majarin architecture always felt wrong beneath his feet. Too smooth. Too deliberate. Organic shapes mimicked in stone, as if the builders wished to appear natural without surrendering control. Corridors curved in ways that guided movement, funnelled visitors, prevented sharp turns and sudden assaults. Even the lighting seemed designed to remove shadows.
It irritated him.
Zhoren walked beside him, posture unchanged, presence measured. Hyrakki escorts moved ahead and behind, a minimal contingent chosen for diplomacy rather than force. Their fear was a scent Makrath could taste, faint but persistent. Not fear of the Marak, exactly. Fear of what Makrath might do if the tether snapped again in unfamiliar territory.
They were right to fear it.
A pair of Marak guards met them without ceremony. They wore masks too, smooth and expressionless, with armour that looked grown rather than forged. Their eyes, visible through narrow apertures, held no curiosity. Only assessment.
No words were exchanged. A gesture. A turn. They were led.
Makrath took inventory with each step. Exit points. Pressure doors. Lines of sight. The station did not feel like a place that could be taken by force, not easily. It was designed to absorb violence and remain intact.
A sensible precaution when one hosted apex predators.
They entered a large chamber.
It was not a throne room. It was not meant to impress with ornament. The space was tall and spare, its surfaces a pale stone that caught light and returned it with a muted sheen. A single raised platform sat at one end, not elevated enough to be theatrical, merely enough to create a clear focal point.
Karian stood there, masked, still.
Power radiated from him in a way Makrath recognised immediately—not loud, not performative, but absolute. The kindof presence that did not need to move to threaten. The air around him felt fractionally denser, as if the station itself were aware of his authority and adjusted accordingly.
Makrath’s skin prickled beneath the armour. His instincts flared.
Not fear.
Competition.
The sudden, sharp urge to test the boundary. To drive his claws into that calm and see what bled out.
His tail tightened behind him. He forced it still. He forced his armour not to rise.
Yearning,he told himself. Not strategy. Not reason. A symptom.
Zhoren stepped forward first. He lowered his head in a formal gesture of respect, the High Arbiter robes shifting like water around his legs.
“Karian,” Zhoren said. His voice carried the weight of Drenn without apology. “High Arbiter Zhoren of Khar. Sael caste.”
Karian’s mask did not move. “I know who you are.”
Zhoren did not bristle. He had not survived his role by taking offence where none was offered. He gestured, minimal and precise, toward Makrath.
